


The Hazards of Travelling Alone

by Pixial



Series: On The Road [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 00:56:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6401323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixial/pseuds/Pixial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's the nicest strangers that are the most dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hazards of Travelling Alone

The Cockeral and Lion stood against the storm with an air of aged dignity. It’d been through far too much to worry about the pattering of raindrops against its worn wooden walls and creaking shutters that threatened to fly open and slam against their frames. The old building had withstood fire, brawls, even a riot or two. A simple storm wouldn’t dislodge it from its place.

Inside was the warm common room, men and women gambling and drinking and laughing away as they sought shelter from the bitter wind and endless shower beyond the once-cheery, faded red trimmed doors. It was a cruel night to be out, but for those stout enough to wade through mud, it wasn’t a bad place to spend the evening.

The doors groaned against the wind, and a newcomer blew in as a wayward gust blew skirts and trousers, winding about the ankles of the patrons before dying away. A handful of people pause their activities to examine the stranger, but their interest isn’t held for long. After all, there were plenty of strangers passing through. Half of the income of the town itself came from supplying wanderers.

For his part, the boy-- man, he reminded himself-- took a breath of relief as he felt eyes becoming bored and returning to whatever he’d interrupted them at. He watched the room for a moment, standing dripping by the door bearing wariness like a cloak. If he needed to run, he would, storm or no storm. But no, this was a safe enough place, despite his misgivings about being somewhere crowded.

He made his way to an open table in a back corner, keeping his gaze down and trained away from anyone that could even remotely pose a threat. When a serving girl took his order, he ignored her attempts at flirting and friendliness with as polite a scowl as he could manage. He wasn’t here for anything beyond a room for the night and a bite to eat, and even that seemed too much. But with the storm, he hadn’t been able to hunt or find a berthing to set up camp, so delving into his carefully horded coin reserve was the only choice.

When his meal arrived, he accepted it with a grunt of thanks and tucked in. He didn’t notice the golden-haired stranger with a lute on his back until he’d slid into the chair next to him. Looking up at the intrusion, he glared at the person’s easy grin and open expression.

“Bard Belven,” said he with a wink and an extended hand. “Bit of nasty weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

Maintaining the glare, the boy refused the hand. “Keir,” he said shortly. Years of training in the ways of manners were hard to break. He was uninterested in company. Why was this bard sticking his nose in? 

An uncomfortable pause stretched between the two as they studied each other. The bard was what Keir assumed was attractive; fair hair, dimples, a limpid blue gaze that glittered with gallant honesty… He was keenly aware of his own appearance, currently resembling that of a half-drowned rat with long scraggly hair and clothing in near tatters. So long as his arm was covered, the only noteworthy thing was his height, and that was only if one knew his true age. He could, and usually did, pass himself off as someone around seventeen years, or older if he could get away with it.

The bard withdrew his hand, seemingly unaware of Keir’s rudeness as he beamed at him. “Ah, rough day?” he said with sympathy. “Here, let me buy us a round and we can commiserate to the loss of a summer evening.” Without waiting for an answer, he gestured to one of the staff and two pints of bitter soon arrived.

Keir regarded the drink with caution, but Belvan hadn’t done anything but attempt to strike up a conversation. And on an evening like this, conversation was as good a form of entertainment as any. Perhaps Keir was being too harsh with him. He attempted to soften his glare and took a sip, wincing at the harsh taste. He’d yet to get used to brews and the like, but the oblivion that usually followed a cup or two was more than worth enduring tongue-curling tastes.

As he continued his meal, Belvan asked questions. Keir answered them brusquely at first, but as alcohol worked his magic and the bard’s open curiosity lulled him into complacency. Keir found himself telling the other where he’d come from, about Brede and its fate. The bard reacted with understandable shock and horror, and gave murmurings of sorrowed condolence. 

The evening progressed, and Belvan ordered another round or two. Keir was glad for his new friend and the tender ear. The bard was kind, offering no judgements or fear. He’d been wrong to brush off this man, and told him so. 

At some point, he was aware that he was quite possibly drunk, but according to Belvan, the tavern had plenty of open rooms and the keeper was more than happy to help him find one. In fact, Belvan himself had a long-standing room of his own, and offered to let Keir stay as his guest. Faced with both the prospect of saving money and someone who would actually help him freely, Keir couldn’t do anything but accept.

As the firelight dimmed and the storm howled outside, Belvan helped, or more accurately carried, Keir to the promised room. The room was simple and inviting, and as he was set upon the bed, the world swam, and the last thing he saw clearly was the bard’s easy grin looming over him before his expected oblivion took hold.

When he finally awoke, he was alone, undressed, and the sun streamed through a crack in the shuttered window. An unfamiliar pain thrummed through his legs and back, and sitting up made his head spin. A couple pieces of gold glittered coldly on the table next to the bed with his pack, and a quick examination showed bruises on his thighs. Ice flooded through him, and Keir stood with gritted teeth and dressed.

As he left The Cockeral and Lion, it was with a re-hardened heart and the determination to never trust a bard with an easy grin and honest eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of the backstory of my D&D character, Keir Caimbeulach, pre-campaign. These will be uploaded in no particular time-line order.


End file.
